At 5 a.m., I got a call from my son-in-law: “Come pick up your daughter at the bus stop. We don’t want her anymore.” When I arrived, my daughter was barely breathing, covered in bruises and broken bones. She sobbed, “My husband and his mother… they beat me.” Rage exploded inside me. I rushed her to the hospital, but she didn’t survive. I packed my bags and went to their house—because that family needed to understand what it feels like when a mother loses her child.

Buzz. Buzz.

It wouldn’t stop. It was relentless.

With a curse, she shook out the match and dropped it. She ripped the phone from her pocket, ready to scream at whoever was interrupting her justice.

The screen lit up her face. DOCTOR EVANS.

Margaret froze. Why would the doctor call? To tell her it was over? To tell her Emily was gone?

If Emily was dead, then there was no reason to hesitate. She would answer, hear the news, and then burn them all to hell.

She slid her thumb across the screen. “Is she gone?” she choked out.

“Margaret?” Dr. Evans’ voice sounded frantic, breathless. “Margaret, where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, eyeing the gasoline-soaked porch. “Is my daughter dead?”

“No!” Dr. Evans shouted. “No, Margaret, listen to me. She’s awake.”

Margaret stood paralyzed on the lawn. “What?”

“It’s… I’ve never seen anything like it,” the doctor stammered. “Her vitals stabilized ten minutes ago. She opened her eyes. She squeezed the nurse’s hand. She’s asking for you, Margaret. She’s trying to speak.”